Pigeon Man

Before we get to today’s piece, I need to say two things:

Firstly, I have to give a big-huge-colossally-gargantuan THANK YOU to all the people who reached out to show their support after my last post. I still have no idea how to understand this whole Substack community thing. It blows my mind that there are people out there who use their precious time to read my writing. That, in and of itself, is incredible. So, to then share my struggles with y’all and to have so many of you shower me with so much love and kindness through your comments, DMs, DMs to Evie, and emails – it’s just like, WOW! I’m still trying to process the wellspring of emotions all your well-wishes stirred up. But I want you all to know it meant so much.

Secondly, for the foreseeable future, I will be posting less frequently. I’m not set on an actual posting-schedule, but I’m thinking once a month will be more manageable. Maybe, if I’m feeling particularly fun, I’ll sneak a cheeky re-post in there from time to time as well. But, for now, it’s important to me to try and finally learn the lesson of rest and balance that the universe and my body seem hellbent on teaching me.

Alrighty, let’s get to today’s piece.

Photo by viswaprem anbarasapandian on Unsplash

It’s kind of strange, really. The sounds we grow to love. To some, one resonance will seem repugnant, while others will find it soothing. Being a skateboarder, I know this well. As there are many people who’ve told me, (often in tones I’ve found repugnant) that, “you’re making a horrible racquet with that damn thing!” And while I understand where they’re coming from, it seems my ears have been tuned to a different timbre. However, there was one time when even I was troubled by the sound of my skateboard. And it all started when I was thirteen. . .

Having graduated from butt-boarding on my parent’s driveway to pushing my skateboard around the neighbourhood, I’d started sampling the many different gradations of skateboarding’s alluring song. There was the ‘ca-thunk, ca-thunk, ca-thunk’ that would resound as my wheels rolled over each crack in the footpath. The magic here was that this created an audible speed-odometer, as the faster I went the less time there’d be between each ‘ca-thunk’. There was the brisk pitter-patter of my wheels trundling over any paved or tiled surface. There was the ‘swoosh’ of soaring across a stretch of smooth seamless concrete. This is the prevailing pitch you’ll hear if you visit any concrete skatepark, (that, and a whole lot of hooting and hollering). But undoubtedly my favourite tune was the riotous roar my wheels made has they ripped across the road. Like a symphony of carnage, the rumbling clamour of my wheels charging atop the asphalt sang to some untamed thing deep within. So, I chased it.

Chasing this sound as far and as fast as I could soon led me to the skatepark in the next suburb over. Immediately, that concrete wonderland became my second home. Every day after school I’d head straight there. Not one to discount the journey, (especially when that journey takes place atop a skateboard) I’d revel in the rapture of moving through the world in the coolest way imaginable as I soared towards my destination. Turning down a bike path that cut through a patch of bush, a flutter of pink and grey would sometimes flash in my periphery. Pigeons ascending skywards, scared off by the raucous rhythms of my skateboard. Looking over to where they’d been, I’d see him standing there. Alone in the bush, with a bit of bread in his hands.

He wore a faded yellow helmet with dents all over it, almost as if someone had taken to it with a bat. Like weeds growing through cracks in the pavement, a surfeit of brown curls pushed their way out of every crevice in his plastic hat. Dangling in front of his eyes they almost reached the fur on his upper lip. Sitting atop a neck as thick as a rhino’s, his portly head ballooned at his cheeks. And while I never saw him riding it, there was always a pushbike resting between his legs. That same grey milkcrate Occy-Strapped to the back.

Our eyes only ever met for a moment. But that was enough for the look on his face to leave an indelible mark on my mind. The frown that pulled at his features looked like it’d become fixed in place. Recessed by their permanent fixture, his crow’s feet were deeper than his age. And with a faraway gaze that seemed to see everything and nothing all at once, his distant eyes appeared vacant. Not in the sense of him being dim-witted, but rather that some essential ember had been extinguished long ago.

Now, perhaps I was reading too far into things, but it seemed like he’d acquiesced to my presence before I’d even appeared. As if, on some deep existential level, he’d already succumb to the fact that he could only ever steal away so much time in the place he’d go with those pigeons before the world encroached again. Realising I was the encroaching world, I softened my expression and lowered my head as I rolled past him down the path. Staring back at me blankly, he reminded me of a fish in a fish tank looking out at the humans tapping on the glass. Somehow disconnected from our realm, but not entirely free from its harassment.

I don’t know how many times I disturbed that man with my damn skateboard. But each time, I was left with this disquieting feeling that I’d become wrapped up in perpetuating a type of torment that had been echoing through his entire life. And so, even though it took way longer, I started taking a different route to the skatepark.

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